


The KGB Art of Seduction

by tenderly_wicked



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Lots of Angst!, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:20:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25229728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderly_wicked/pseuds/tenderly_wicked
Summary: “A KGB seduction course? Does that even exist? No, you must be joking. Are you joking, Peril?”
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 20
Kudos: 135





	The KGB Art of Seduction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [babydragon7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/babydragon7/gifts).



> Huge thanks to my beta [SwissMiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/pseuds/SwissMiss)!

Maybe he’s had a bit too much scotch when he asks, “How are things with Gaby progressing?”

Illya squints at him, diverted from his chess board. “How do you mean?”

Napoleon makes a vague airy gesture, perhaps too broad—his coordination is slightly off. “I thought you two were getting somewhere. But apparently not. By the way, if you ever need advice on your conduct with women, Peril—I’m all at your service. I could teach you a thing or two.”

It wasn’t meant as a jibe, but now that the words are out of his mouth, they don’t sound entirely harmless either. For a moment or two, while Illya stares at him, the expression on his face unreadable, Napoleon is almost sure the evening will end with a punch. And it has been nice so far, if somewhat dull. Gaby is out, and there are just the two of them in the London safe house they ended up sharing. Illya has been busy with his chess, and Napoleon has inevitably gotten bored. But definitely not bored enough to welcome a fight.

Fortunately, in the end Illya just says, “Thank you, but no. First of all, we’re friends with Gaby. It’s better this way. Secondly, I don’t need advice in that department. You forget I’m a spy. We had a course on seduction techniques.”

Napoleon, taking another sip from his glass, almost splutters his drink. “A KGB seduction course? Does that even exist? No, you must be joking. Are you joking, Peril?”

Illya sighs, with a longing glance at his unfinished chess game. “Why are you so surprised? Don’t you have something similar at the CIA? A good spy must be able to set a honey trap.”

“ _Setting_ a honey trap and _being_ a honey trap are different things, Peril. No offense, but you don’t usually look or act… seductive.”

With his interaction problems and customarily sour countenance, Peril is hardly a Soviet Don Juan, is he?

Illya persists, though. “It’s just an additional set of skills. Why use it when I don’t need to?”

Napoleon tilts his head. “Did they teach you to work on marks of any gender? Or just women?”

He wants to embarrass Illya, he must admit. It’s so gratifying, riling him up. But Illya just shrugs. “If necessary. Do you want proof I could do it? Want to bet?”

Napoleon considers it. A bet sounds like fun. “What about a reward for the winner?”

“It could be… I don’t know… a favor?”

“In the sense of, I can ask anything of you if I win?”

“Yes. But you won’t.”

Napoleon is of another opinion entirely, so he salutes Peril with his glass and says, “Deal. So what, now we pick a random victim in the crowd for you to work your mighty charms on?”

Illya shakes his head disapprovingly. “No. Not fair. When it’s not absolutely necessary for the job, it’s not good, treating people like that. And before you even suggest it, I’m not practicing on Gaby.”

“Then I don’t see how you can prove…”

“It could be a volunteer. You, for example.”

Napoleon blinks at him. Then, having somewhat recovered, presses a palm to his heart theatrically. “What, Peril, you care for some unknown person’s feelings, but not for mine? I’m deeply wounded. Or should I be flattered you consider me tough enough to withstand the ordeal? Anyway, wouldn’t it ruin the experiment if I’m already aware of your indecent intentions?”

Belatedly, it occurs to him he should have protested and said he couldn't be seduced by a man per se, for the sake of decency. But oh well, he’s had his share of experiments in the army. And afterwards. Something being illegal? Never stopped him. On the contrary, the possibility of being caught was rather… stimulating.

Illya regards him pensively. “Not really. It will be more of a challenge, but targets might suspect they are being conned, and still they must surrender in the end.”

“No surrender!” Napoleon proclaims. “It’s a deal. Try to seduce me. I’m curious as to how you think you’ll manage it. Will you flirt with me? Bat your eyelashes at me? I admit you have prominent eyelashes, but I doubt that’s enough to get me all hot and bothered.” He’d swear Illya blushes at the compliment, finally embarrassed. Oh, this is going to be fun indeed. “Should we tell Gaby?”

“Don’t you dare,” Illya growls. And that’s as seductive as he gets.

***

Unfortunately, the experiment is brought to a halt the next day when, right after having arrived in Saint-Tropez, Illya immediately gets into a knife fight and ends up with a nasty gash on his side, bleeding profusely. The fact that his two adversaries stay on the ground in the dark, narrow street is of little consolation to Napoleon, who has to almost drag Illya back to their hotel. What a nice way to pass the time at the French Riviera indeed. Illya seems to pay little attention to Napoleon’s well-founded reproaches, though, leaning heavily on his shoulder, dizzy with blood loss.

When Gaby opens the door, she takes a glance at the two of them and declares, “Bathroom. Don’t you dare bleed anywhere else. I’ll get the first aid kit.”

Without protest, Illya makes it to the bathroom, staggering, and slumps on the bathtub’s edge. Napoleon gets rid of his blood-stained jacket—pinstripe, fitted, and now totally ruined—turns up his sleeves, and washes his hands thoroughly.

“Take off your shirt,” he orders.

Illya shakes his head, eyes half-closed.

“Need help with that?”

Illya shakes his head again, stubbornly, but also wobbly. “No. I’ll manage myself. You go.”

“You’re barely conscious.”

Illya makes an attempt to unbutton his shirt one-handed, though his fingers are visibly trembling. “Barely, but still conscious.”

“I know you’re tough, Peril. No need to show off in front of me. Why don’t you let me help?”

Illya finally drops his hand, frustrated, having made no progress. “It’s the bet. It was stupid. I shouldn’t have suggested it. If you see me naked, won’t you think I’m trying to seduce you? I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me. I like it the way we are.”

“Moron,” Napoleon sighs. “You’re not a very tantalizing sight right now, believe me.”

Illya looks relieved. “Oh. Good. That’s good.”

Without further arguing, Napoleon starts unbuttoning his shirt, and Illya lets him.

“Now, the tricky part. It’s a bit stuck here. I’m going to carefully peel it off…”

At the first tug, Illya makes a small sound at the back of his throat, but stays still.

“Sorry, Peril.”

No matter how gentle he tries to be, it must hurt. Illya keeps stoically silent, lips pressed tight, but now that he’s mentioned their bet, stupid indeed, Napoleon can’t help but wonder what sounds he might make _in bed_. It’s sickening that he should think about it now, but guilt can’t stop his mind from imagining things.

It’s strange, given that they spend so much time together in close quarters, but he really hasn’t seen Illya naked or even half-naked before. As he helps Peril to shrug the shirt off his shoulders, it’s a bit of a shock to see an impressive array of scars, obviously from a variety of weapons, in addition to the crescent one close to his right eye.

Napoleon almost asks: “If KGB’s best look like this, how do the worst look?”—but bites his joke down in time. What if Illya feels self-conscious about them, wearing all these long-sleeved turtlenecks all the time? He shouldn’t, really, because otherwise, he's the picture of health—he has a well-sculpted body, superbly fit. He shouldn’t hide it. But that’s probably a wrong thing to tell him, too. Given that their bet is off, it might sound inappropriate.

Not that Napoleon normally cares for being appropriate. He does like winding Peril up and wouldn’t have hesitated to tease him just a few days ago, but something Illya said stops him. _I like it the way we are._ Surprisingly, Napoleon likes it too, and he doesn’t want to ruin it. He can be delicate. Sometimes. On rare occasions.

***

The bet was a bad idea, yes, Napoleon admits it. It would have complicated things, no matter if Illya succeeded or not. Perhaps more so if he did. And yet, Napoleon feels disappointed. He’s curious as to what Peril considers to be seduction techniques. Surely, not playing chess in front of him, again, unnervingly aloof. Chess is hardly sexy.

Except that Illya has a habit of worrying his lips with his fingers when he’s thinking about the next move. Previously, Napoleon didn’t pay much attention to it, but now his imagination keeps supplying him with dirty scenarios. Lips. Fingers. Illya opening his mouth at the touch…

It’s also decisively _not_ fascinating, the way Illya is studying the blueprints Napoleon has stolen for their new mission. He’s frowning in concentration, tracing the inner layout of the villa they are about to infiltrate, and Napoleon wonders idly whether Illya would study _him_ with the same focus if they ended up among crumpled sheets.

Well, anyway, what would Illya do if he _really_ wanted to look seductive? Was he planning to saunter across their safehouse in a state of deshabille, despite his discomfort with being underdressed? It would have been nice, to see more of him. Which is a startling realization because Illya isn’t his type at all. Napoleon prefers playful bedmates. Women or men he can flirt with. People who take things lightly, grab the pleasure they can, and part ways without grudges afterwards. Illya is different material entirely. Too serious, too wound up.

But objectively, Illya is an attractive man, despite his ascetic fashion style; Napoleon would give him that. Stunning even. As an art thief, Napoleon has always been able to appreciate a masterpiece even in a dull frame. If only Illya weren’t so damn serious all the time, watching with the eyes of a martyr as other people had fun…

Speaking of having fun… Napoleon has never seen him practicing the skills he claims to have. Is it because he’s a highly disciplined and conscientious person and his principles don’t allow him to use his mastery for anything else but work, especially for personal needs? That could be the case. Unlike Napoleon, Illya is surely a man of integrity, to the point of being ridiculous.

One more version, though—this was a joke after all, the whole KGB seduction stuff. It isn’t always easy to guess when Illya is making things up. He might tell the most absurd stories with a poker face, inventing them from scratch. Often when he’s reluctant to admit he isn’t quite an expert in some field.

But no matter which of the two versions is the right one, there’s something that keeps bugging Napoleon’s mind. Illya suggested seducing him in such a casual way like it was a trifle. But surely, if things are not good for men who like men in America, it must be even worse in the prudish USSR?

So what does it mean?

Illya chooses this very moment to look up from the blueprints and catch Napoleon staring.

“What, Cowboy?”

“Just out of pure curiosity. Have you ever seduced someone with your renowned KGB techniques?”

Illya blinks. “I haven’t had the need to. Why ask now?”

_That’s… interesting._

“Have you ever had a girlfriend, though? Or… not a girlfriend? Someone close?”

He doesn’t ask directly, _Are you a virgin_? But that’s what he’d like to know, really, in addition to Illya’s predilections.

Illya grimaces. “It’s not consistent with my line of work.”

“It is with mine. So what’s the difference?”

Illya looks at him as if he is a complete idiot. “You don’t have girlfriends. They are all for a night only. That’s not my way. And I can’t have more, that would be irresponsible.”

“Oh, Peril. A romantic, are you?”

Illya scowls at him. “No. A realist. Now can we discuss our plan for tomorrow instead?”

Napoleon raises his hands in surrender. “As you wish.”

He isn’t sure whether Peril is weird or adorable, or maybe both. Certainly not your average spy.

He resolutely doesn’t stare (too much) when the next day they climb the villa’s stone wall, one after another, and Illya’s shapely ass is at his eye level for a few moments.

***

Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but sometimes Napoleon seems to catch Illya staring, too. Just for a brief moment, now and then. Does it mean something? What exactly? Is he interested, or is it just because he noticed Napoleon ogling him, so he answers in kind?

Also, there’s a thing about touching. It’s not like Peril ever touches him in a suggestive manner, but they do touch, quite a lot, come to think of it—and Napoleon just _can’t_ stop thinking. A brush of a hand to attract his attention, a firmer grip on the shoulder to stop him—it’s all casual of course, something partners do on missions, but it’s more physical contact than is strictly necessary. Napoleon might have bristled and said something caustic if it were someone else, another agent he barely knew. Perhaps because it would have been an unpleasant reminder of his first acquaintance with the CIA. With Illya, he doesn’t mind. Peril is still very much a stranger, too, and yet his proximity is familiar in a non-threatening way. Maybe that’s because Napoleon held this body when it was coughing out water after a near-drowning experience or patched it up when it was bleeding. What could be more intimate than that?

The question remains, though: is it intentional on Illya’s part? Does he realize what he’s doing?

Napoleon isn’t used to waiting and guessing. He prefers to act on impulse, to make the first move as soon as possible, and establish results. The more so in his personal life. Paraphrasing Julius Caesar, his motto could be: _I saw, I conquered, I came_.

In this particular case, it might be reckless to rush _into peril_ , but who could ever accuse Napoleon of being a sensible person?

So he decides to try out an experiment. If he’s wrong in his assumptions, he’ll back off and turn everything into a joke before he earns a punch. Hopefully.

First of all, he sets a scene. Despite his impatience, he has to postpone his plans until he can have some time alone with Illya. Fortunately, not for long. Within a week, the two of them end up in an idyllic cottage on Corfu waiting for Gaby to arrive separately. They will definitely have at least one night to themselves, maybe more, and Napoleon volunteers to cook dinner while Illya is checking, with appreciative concentration, a brand new Dragunov sniper rifle, freshly smuggled through Yugoslavia, that might be of use in a few days. Napoleon gives it a side glance, well aware that his CIA handlers might be interested in its design, but he’s not particularly inclined to make their life better without direct orders. His culinary endeavor is currently of more importance to him.

It’s not like Illya generally appreciates the finesse of haute cuisine; he wolfs everything down without much grace, as if it’s just necessary fuel for his body. But at least he doesn’t question Napoleon’s choice of exotic (and rather expensive) ingredients, like Gaby sometimes does. Moreover, he’s usually eager to eat something home-cooked instead of going out. Maybe that’s because he stands out too much in public places—the reaction to his accent isn’t necessarily hostile, but unwanted curiosity is almost always there. Or maybe because it’s a rare thing when someone cooks for him.

From what Napoleon can guess, Illya mostly lived on canteen food back in Moscow, which is hardly varied. A rather sad story, really. Although there’s no one to care about Napoleon’s wellbeing either, at least he makes an effort to make his own life comfortable and even luxurious when possible. Illya doesn’t bother with any self-indulgences if it’s not crucial for their missions. Well, Napoleon is quite capable of spoiling them both, before they have to face some right-wing zealots. An octopus grilled in vinegar and olive oil should do.

After Illya is plied with food, the Dragunov temporary forgotten, it’s time to proceed.

“You’re so tense, Peril. Sitting with your back hunched over that rifle did you no good. Let me…”

He half-expects Illya to recoil when he starts kneading his shoulders, which are tense indeed. Illya stills but doesn’t move, like the time when Napoleon tried to unstick the bloodied shirt from his knife wound.

Napoleon has skilled, deft hands, and Illya is made of flesh after all, like anyone else, not a block of Soviet concrete. Gradually, Peril starts to relax. And that’s when Napoleon’s touches become… maybe not bolder, but certainly more sensual. Can Illya tell that? Does he stay in place simply because he isn’t sure how to react? Napoleon is ready to stop at any moment if Illya goes all rigid again, but he doesn’t. He leans back when Napoleon runs his fingers through his hair and starts massaging his scalp, and even gives an encouraging hum when Napoleon scratches his ears, squeezes and pulls his earlobes, very lightly. It’s definitely not what colleagues do. Time to move to Illya’s neck… and his collarbones… and for that, it’s only natural to unfasten the top buttons of his shirt…

“Are you doing what I think you’re doing?” Illya murmurs, eyelids half-closed, when Napoleon’s hand slips in under the cotton.

Napoleon stills for a second, but there’s no menace or even irritation in Illya’s tone, so he continues, sliding his hand lower still, fanning his fingers through Illya’s soft chest hair, experimentally. Not just a friendly gesture. “What does it look like?”

“Like you’re trying to get under my clothes.”

“Do you mind?”

“Depends,” Illya says pensively. “What do you want?”

“Do you need me to spell it out for you?”

“Yes.”

Napoleon sighs. “I thought I was being fairly obvious, Peril. But fine. I want _you_. What do you say to that?”

“I say it worked then,” Illya mutters. Unexpectedly, there’s something akin to bitterness in his voice.

“What?”

“Seduction. I seduced you.”

Napoleon laughs. “Oh no, _I_ was seducing you, actually. You said it was a stupid idea…”

And that’s when Illya pulls back from him. “Yes, but I never said the bet was off. You’re a spy, Cowboy, you should pay attention to wording.” 

***

“Some people like to be seduced, some people like to be seducers. You are the second type,” Illya keeps explaining. “I had to let you believe you were acting of your own free will. Make the prize worth hunting for. Give you the thrill of a chase. It’s enticing, corrupting someone untouchable. A Soviet virgin.”

Napoleon clears his throat. “Are you? A virgin?”

“Is there a difference now?”

“Probably none,” Napoleon agrees.

It’s unpleasant to be tricked. At least it’s not like Illya is gloating, he’s merely stating the facts, in a professional way.

“You’re a gambler, it’s in your file. I presumed you’d be interested in a bet.”

 _And I played right into your hand,_ Napoleon thinks. Aloud, he protests, “It’s also in my file that I’m—how did they put it?—a serial womanizer. Why did you decide I’d be interested in being seduced by a man?”

“If they had just said _a womanizer_ , it might have been different. But _a serial womanizer_ means either a very high libido, which could work both ways, or overcompensating for something. Or perhaps even a conscientious attempt to create a façade for yourself, to hide other needs.”

“Is it what they teach you at the KGB?”

Illya shrugs. “Simple psychology. Anyway, I could have been wrong. So first, testing waters. You haven’t reacted in an aggressive way. I could proceed. Then I had to monitor your reactions, see if you needed encouraging.”

“But I didn’t,” Napoleon admits, letting a tad of self-loathing slip through, but compensating it with a smile.

“Not much. It’s an art of inception. You tell a person not to think of something—and they’ll be hard pressed to think of anything else. The idea is stuck in their minds. Simple. Effective. Then it’s fractionation. Sending mixed signals. Stepping forward, then taking a step back. Teasing.”

Napoleon lingers for a moment. “You haven’t gotten yourself wounded on purpose, have you, just to let me undress you?”

“No, but I wasn’t as helpless as I pretended to be. Just a lucky coincidence.”

Napoleon stares at him. “Lucky? Really? Sometimes I marvel at you, Peril. Just when I start thinking you’re human, you say something that makes me change my mind.”

He knows he’s being too harsh just because he feels fooled, but he can’t stop himself. Maybe it’s better if they spend the evening apart and then, when Gaby arrives, pretend nothing has happened.

“I think I’ll go out for a stroll,” he declares. “It looks like I lost the bet and owe you a favor now, but I’d rather we discussed it some time later.”

Illya stands up as if to stop him, but does nothing. Napoleon is aware of footsteps behind his back, frantic pacing, as he leaves, and when he reaches the door—there’s a hollow thud.

He turns to see a dent in the white plaster on the wall and blood on Illya’s knuckles. Peril flexes and unflexes his fingers, as if considering punching the wall again, then just leans against it, eyes closed, breathing heavily.

Napoleon approaches him with caution. “Peril? This was just a bet after all. I must admit I was taken aback, but we’re… alright.”

“You could still have me if you want to,” Illya says in a husky voice. “I just… I don’t want it to be a lie. Just because of the bet. Because one of us had to win.”

“And then what, Peril? We both forget it in the morning?”

Illya looks at him, a pained crease between his brows. “If that’s what you want.”

“What if it isn’t?”

“Then don’t forget. As I said… you can have me.”

Suddenly, it’s like a stab to the heart, to see him so close, to regard him without touching. His eyes of a long-suffering but benevolent saint, his golden eyelashes, everything—it’s both too much and not enough.

“Is it what _you_ want, Peril?”

Instead of answering, Illya reaches out with his bloodied hand and cups Napoleon’s cheek, caresses his chin. It’s like a jolt of electricity, despite the tenderness and uncertainty of the gesture. They pull each other into a kiss simultaneously. Napoleon almost groans into Illya’s mouth. Finally. Finally. It’s more overwhelming than he thought it would be, there’s nothing calculated about it, just raw need, just affinity that has been there all along.

 _If I tell him that, would it be a sappy thing to do?_ The thought flashes through Napoleon’s mind and wanes, overridden by intense physicality, the feeling of skin, muscles, warm and eager flesh—the almost unbearable, searing-hot awareness of Illya’s body…

***

It wasn't too bad. Not as painful as Illya had expected it might be. He tries to catalogue his post-coital damage: mild soreness in his ass, a few scratches and hickeys, in addition to his abraded knuckles. Nothing to worry about. It’s not that he wouldn’t have endured the pain, but it was easier to maintain arousal throughout intercourse when it didn’t hurt.

“You okay, Peril?” Napoleon murmurs into his hair. Illya can feel a dreamy smile in his voice.

He’s supposed to grumble that yes, of course he’s okay, more than okay. And he doesn’t disappoint.

Napoleon sighs contentedly; the gust of breath against Illya’s ear feels surprisingly nice. Better than the sex itself.

To be fair, Napoleon clearly did his best to make the experience worthwhile for Illya, giving it all he had. It’s not his fault Illya is the way he is: capable of having an orgasm, like any other healthy male of his age, but not very much interested in it. He’d rather they just could lie pressed to each other, like now, intimate and relaxed, but it seems normal people don’t work like that and he has to take it into account to get what he wants.

Which is—the ultimate seduction. Capturing both body and soul.

It’s never enough simply to sleep with someone, even if it’s just for blackmail purposes. One should strive to turn a short-lived fling into dependence. Love, if you will.

Use any means necessary, they say. If you’re unable to kill, befriend, tame, secure. Tell as much truth as you can, so nobody would suspect a lie. Worm yourself into your adversary’s mind and coil there, waiting for further instructions.

That’s what Gaby tried to do to him at first, luring and retreating, being violent and vulnerable in turns, but they understood each other in the end. No grudges.

And now that’s what he has done to Napoleon Solo.

Homosexuality might be illegal for the Soviets, but so is killing people in cold blood. What difference should it be for a man like him? He’s a weapon first and foremost. A weapon is devoid of morals. Its purpose is to be efficient. There isn’t any room for guilt… Maybe it’s there when it shouldn’t be simply because he hasn’t done this before.

Illya steadfastly doesn’t think of what his KGB handler and his colleagues will think of him when they learn everything. It’s too easy to guess. But Napoleon had been right when he’d said Illya understood humiliation better than most. He’s used to it. He’ll survive this, too.

It’s harder not to think of Solo’s reaction when the truth creeps out one day. Technically, Napoleon owes him a favor because of their bet. Illya isn’t sure what to ask for when the time comes—a quick shot or his forgiveness. It’s likely Napoleon will give him neither. Maybe not even a punch, just a few scathing words. Atonement can’t be always deserved through anguish, though it would have been so much easier that way. Pain, Illya knows. Pain, he can take.

Maybe next time he should say he likes things rough.

At the moment, though, in a rare fit of cowardice, he wants nothing else but to be held like Napoleon is holding him now, as if they’re still friends, the closest people in the world.

Well-functioning grown-ups, let alone trained killers, aren’t supposed to be that weak, that needy, are they? There’s a malfunction somewhere in his mind and he doesn’t know how to fix it before it gets dangerous.

For now, the important thing is, this will keep Napoleon safe. If Illya reports he has him on a leash, nobody will think of taking him out, whatever happens. A potentially compromised CIA agent is an asset. No harm will come to him from the Soviet side because they might have a use for him in the future.

So Illya won’t be ordered to kill him. It’s really pathetic how badly he doesn’t want to hear such an order again. Could he ever try to explain it?

“I’m happy as a schoolboy,” Napoleon murmurs and presses a languid kiss to his neck. Illya can feel the curve of Napoleon’s smile against his skin.

Illya doesn’t remember having been particularly happy as a schoolboy—or afterwards, to be honest, but he’s glad Napoleon feels like that. Even if it’s all a lie, he doesn’t want Napoleon to be _unhappy_.

“Same,” he mutters, hoping he won’t have to elaborate.

“What are you going to do when you retire?” Napoleon asks out of the blue.

Illya has never thought about it. People like him don’t retire: short life expectancy. Maybe it’s for the best. He doesn’t want to think of being old and alone, limping around his neglected Moscow apartment, yelling at the TV, and slowly going insane.

But Napoleon, ever so optimistic, clearly envisions their retirement differently. He doesn’t wait for Illya to answer. “I was thinking of a small artistic business, mostly legal, but not in a big city, for a change. Something nice by the sea, warm and sunny. South of France maybe, if you try to avoid knife fights from now on? How does that sound?”

Illya could remind him that no one will tolerate a former Soviet spy in Western Europe once he’s of no use anymore. How will he get a visa? But he doesn’t want to spoil Napoleon’s cheerful mood, so he just hums ambiguously, which could pass as agreement.

It would be nice, waking up on a sunny morning to the peaceful clatter of dishes in the kitchen and getting out of bed, still yawning, to find Napoleon cooking breakfast in nothing but a ridiculous apron. In this vision, both of them are still strong and healthy, and there are years and years ahead of them. Years of laughing, arguing, romping about in bed, buying groceries and furniture… Years of everything normal people do.

Gaby will visit them, of course she will. And she’ll be happy, too, somehow, because in a dream all of them can be happy.

This fantasy is so bright, so colorful that it’s almost blinding. It makes Illya’s eyes sting.

Not least because all of it is utterly unrealistic.

On the other hand, a dream doesn’t have to match reality. It is what it is, a dream. So he lets himself indulge in it, even if just for a short while. He knows he’s not worthy of having something wholesome, something true, but he can settle for a make-believe. Pretend he’s loved for what he is, not what he appears to be. It’s easy to do when Napoleon is lazily carding his fingers through his hair.

So Illya closes his eyes and lets the illusion wash over him, like warm, caressing tidal waves.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want more hurt/comfort and angst (and some fanart), you can check out [my Tumblr blog](http://tenderlywicked.tumblr.com/) and [my website](https://katerinaross.com/).
> 
> Also, I probably should add that the Russian name Ilya is actually spelled with one L, not two, but that's already canon, so who am I to argue? ;)


End file.
